


Kneel before your Queen.

by RedLights



Category: The Crown (TV)
Genre: Angst and Porn, F/M, Femdom, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Power Dynamics, Strong Female Characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2017-02-07
Packaged: 2018-09-22 02:33:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9578618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedLights/pseuds/RedLights
Summary: Nothing is sacred when it comes to fanfiction, so: smut starring reigning monarchs. (I'm choosing not to consider it as RPF because I'm writing about the Crown characters, not the real people.)Philip finally learns how to get on his knees, figuratively and literally.





	1. Chapter 1

       

 **Fandom:** The Crown (TV)  
**Genre:** romance, smut  
**Pairing:** Queen Elizabeth II/Prince Philip  
**Rating:** M for semi-explicit sexual content  
**Words:** 1,898

     They were in their favorite sitting room, Philip reading the paper and Elizabeth reading some of the letters she'd received this week. The monarchs enjoyed the silence, and were content to spend an hour or two in each other's quiet company before children and staff and ruling a country had to be attended to. Besides, they tried not to speak with each other much these days — speaking inevitably turned to arguing, and they were both tired of that.

        The time passed slowly, as Elizabeth preferred it to do lately. There never seemed to be enough of it. Philip was quite at his leisure, flipping through the paper on the love seat opposite hers, but she felt as if these quiet afternoon moments had to be squeezed into her day. She had a letter from her mother, and had been reading it, but at the second paragraph on drapes and carpets her eyes began to glaze over. The Queen glanced up at the furnishings of her own home, if one could call it that. They'd been touched up recently for the first time in years, but of course everything was nearly as old as the palace itself. She recalled with the ghost of a smile the time spent at Windsor Castle with Margaret, during the war; perhaps it was only the rose-tinted lens of nostalgia, but even that had seemed more like a home than the Palace. Looking around at the décor and down at her dress, which was expensive but hardly the latest fashion, Elizabeth tried to suppress her desire for something, _anything_ modern. The Queen of England was not a model, hardly even a woman, and Buckingham Palace was a symbol, not a home.

        Philip was watching his wife. Her face was completely blank, with no sign as to the nature of her thoughts save those wide blue eyes he'd long ago learned how to read. She was born for this job, he thought, with no small amount of bitterness. She was far too good at being collected, unreadable. At least, to anyone but him. He could see wistfulness in her eyes now, watched as a smile passed through them, then something harder, something that turned her pale blue irises cold.

        She seemed to shake herself out of it and became aware of his eyes on her. A small smile turned up the corners of her lips - lips he still wanted, as much as he hated the words that came out of them - and she cocked an eyebrow.  
        “Something the matter, darling?”  
        Philip gave her a look, and the playfulness left Elizabeth’s expression. “Oh, really, we're back to this again, are we?” She dropped the letter on the table beside her and leaned back on the sofa, crossing her legs. “Go on,” she gestured to him, “Tell me how I've wounded your ever-important pride.”  
        “I’m only teasing,” Philip replied defensively. Her calm façade never seemed to apply around him anymore.  
         Elizabeth looked down. She took a deep breath, and tried to smile, but it was tight-lipped and unconvincing. “I'm sorry.”

        Philip nodded once, then turned back to the paper, and Elizabeth picked up her mother’s letter. It was silent again.

        Elizabeth heard her husband exhale sharply a minute later and glanced up to see him toss the paper aside. He stood abruptly and paced, in his long, swift strides, the short distance to stand before her. She looked up at him. “Well?”  
        “I am not unreasonable or insecure just because I want my wife to act like a woman. Every other man in the whole bloody world would laugh at the idea of being told to prostrate himself before his wife,” Philip spat out at her.  
        “And why is that?” Elizabeth responded fiercely. “Because we are less than you? Because we have no importance without husbands? Because we're your servants, not your equals?”  
        “That is not what I meant,” Philip said, and turned away, hands on his hips, head down. His posture of exasperation, and poorly-concealed resentment.  
Elizabeth threw the papers aside for a second time and took a step forward. “And what did you mean?” She pressed. “That you can’t bear it if the world isn't absolutely clear on the fact that you're the powerful one? _You're not_.”  
        Philip whirled around. “Aren't I, _wife_?”  
        “You are not, _Duke_ ,” Elizabeth hissed. He recoiled as if he'd been hit, the reminder of his lower rank shot at him like a bullet from her mouth.

        They both stood, glaring at each other, for several seconds. Elizabeth's chest was heaving, and she drew in a slow, deep breath to collect herself. She crossed her arms and shifted back on her heels, then addressed her husband coolly. “And you would do well to remember, husband, that I know you. Don't fool yourself to think that dominating me is what you want.”  
        “And what's that supposed to mean exactly?” Philip demanded, stepping forward so that she had to tilt her head to hold his gaze.  
        “It means,” she replied, unfazed, “That I know you need something else, too, maybe even more than you need to protect your ego.”  
        Philip stiffened, taken completely aback. Elizabeth knew that was a risk, but it had come out of her mouth before she'd been able to bite it back. She tried not to let her sudden apprehension show in her face. "You knew what you were getting when you married me, and you wanted it. Don't blame me if it's more than you bargained for and you can't handle it."

        More often than not, it felt like a power struggle with them, and he made love to her like he owned her. She didn't mind; loved it, actually. Loved how he possessed her, covered her, made her body his property and her pleasure his decision. But she also knew the way he loved it when she was in control. Sometimes, she fucked him back harder.

         His hands were still on his hips, his posture still defensive and his eyes still like steel. She heard him inhale sharply, then he closed the gap between them and crushed his lips to hers.


	2. Chapter 2

_She heard him inhale sharply, then he closed the gap between them and crushed his lips to hers._

     Elizabeth usually melted into him when they kissed. Philip took advantage of it — if she was cross with him, he would simply press his lips to hers and she would soften, mold herself around him, forget the difficult business of thinking in favor of a much more pleasant sensation. This kiss was not like those. She stretched up to kiss him back even harder, twining her fingers into his golden hair so tight that her nails dug into his scalp. She bit his lower lip, sucked it into her mouth, traced it with her tongue. There was an edge of anger in the way their lips moved.

     Philip’s kiss felt needy. He was hardly even trying to win this battle for dominance between them, and when his long fingers dug into her waist it felt needy, pleading almost. Elizabeth pushed him away after a moment, starting to get dizzy, and remembered where they were. “Not here.”

     “Weren't you just telling me how powerful you are?” His words were playful, but his breathless tone didn't match — he was of one mind, and talking didn't figure into what he wanted.

     Elizabeth considered, glanced down at his lips, then lower, and forgot about propriety. “Have the doors locked.”

     Philip stalked to the door and poked his head out to a passing maid. “Lock the doors behind me, and ensure my wife and I are not disturbed.” He then came swiftly back to Elizabeth and, placing both large hands at either side of her face, pulled her lips back to his.

     It had been weeks since he’d last kissed her for more than a passing moment, and it showed. Their bodies moved against each other with a tinge of desperation, of needs too long suppressed. Philip moved her towards the sofa, obviously meaning to lay her down, and she pushed him away. He looked at her, breathless and confused, and she lowered herself slowly onto the sofa. Sitting straight-backed, ankles crossed, ladylike but commanding, she held his gaze.

“On your knees.”

     Elizabeth could see the conflict behind his eyes, pride warring with desire and masculinity battling love. She watched the thoughts race as she took in his fine, aristocratic features, his long, lean body; his usually impeccable blonde hair was messy and his sharply tailored suit was rumpled. It occurred to her that he'd spoken to the servants looking like that, but she couldn't find it in herself to care.

     She saw Philip swallow and realized she might have to repeat herself. “Kneel.”

     And he dropped to his knees.

     Elizabeth felt a rush of power, as arousing as anything she'd ever felt, as she looked down at him. Blue eyes met blue eyes and, feeling uncommonly bold, she slowly uncrossed her legs. Her mind lagged behind her body, her inhibitions too late to stop her from opening her legs to him. Philip’s eyes darkened with lust and his misgivings about handing over control seemed to vanish. Inhaling deeply, he reached out to run his hands up her legs, slowly, fingertips trailing up the insides of her thighs. She shivered as his hands met at the apex and one finger brushed lightly over her before continuing up to the waist of her stockings and rolling them down. Elizabeth kicked off her heels as Philip pulled the stockings off and tossed them aside. 

     He began his journey again, and this time his mouth replaced his hand. He moved slowly up her leg, pressing open-mouthed kisses to her ankles, her calves, her knees, her thighs. She ached with the frustrating pleasure of his mouth everywhere but where she wanted it. Philip pushed up her skirts as he went, rucking them up about her waist. Finally, Elizabeth felt his hot breath at the crease of her inner thigh, so close but so far, and a shiver went through her. Then his lips closed over her skin and he pulled it into his mouth. Each suck elicited a rush of pleasure that went tingling through her body. As he drew back he nipped at the swollen, sensitive skin, and the pain made her gasp with pleasure. 

Elizabeth looked down at her husband, on his knees, his head between her legs. He glanced up to catch her gaze, and she couldn't for the life of her have described how sensual it was to see him like this, under her power. Slowly, torturously, without looking away, he hooked one long finger around her knickers and pulled them aside. Two fingers dipped inside her as he pressed his mouth onto her, and she was lost.

     Philip flopped back against the couch, then turned his head to look at her with a raised eyebrow. “So you're to be in charge of this part of our lives, too, then?”

     “Oh, I think not, darling,” Elizabeth grinned, her breathing slowly returning to normal, still a bit shaky. “I daresay I’d find that quite exhausting.”

     Philip threw his head back and laughed, an unchecked, uproarious laugh. Elizabeth was wracked with it, laughing mostly for the sake of laughing, collapsing after minutes onto her husband’s chest. They sat there for a while longer, each so thoroughly satisfied and peaceful that the servants murmuring outside the door escaped their notice. The rest of the day felt to both of them like a bothersome chore, to be waited out before they could return to their bedroom and finish what they'd started.


End file.
